


Glimpses of Clarity

by izzyb



Category: Doom (2005)
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyb/pseuds/izzyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam saves John by injecting him with Chromosome 24, she gains a protector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glimpses of Clarity

While it was still happening, Sam woke up while in his arms, briefly, and heard him murmur under his breath—not complete sentences, just reassurances. She took them to heart and fell asleep once more, safe.

When she struggled into consciousness again, he was nowhere in sight. She was warm, in soft, clean clothes, and was tucked under covers in a bed. Where? She has no idea. But Sam took solace in the fact that John had to be nearby. Her most vivid memory before she passed out the last time was that he swore he wouldn’t leave her.

He damn well better not. She was done with his disappearing act.

*

An arm was wrapped securely around her when she woke, this time with a clear head and, hey, muscle control. She tapped him to release her and he did, allowing her freedom to turn and face him. John’s face was serene, but his eyes looked haunted and restless, as if he were somewhere else.

“Here,” she said, “be here,” and they focused on her, as if in recognition. And relief.

He wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t settle much more than he already was. He also wouldn’t move more than an arms-length away from her, or let her have her back to the door.

“We’re safe,” she said, not for the first time, but he just rolled his eyes at her.

“Obviously. Now.”

“Okay then.”

And she let herself close her eyes again. Her head and back were still aching like a bitch, even with the drugs she knows he had pumped into her system.

*

It was later; probably a week, but it could be a month or so. Sam was not keeping track of time. She was dealing with enough already.

John had taken to showing up at random times—as she was working out (carefully) at the gym, in her living room as she opened the door with groceries in hand, at the library when she was researching Chromosome 24 and its possibilities. She supposed he was keeping a low profile, that someone could be searching for the person who destroyed the Ark. Or he could be making sure nothing was getting out.

She also knew that he was not exactly the same since she injected him. She knew he thought he was still responsible for her, even though he was the one to safely bring her back to Earth and they were square.

It was not as if she knows him well as an adult, so really this could be what John was like, before.

So she accepts it, accepts him.

And eventually, his presence becomes part of her life. She sees him every day and he spends most nights on her couch. When the nightmares start up again, he starts spending nights in her bed.

It becomes a habit she tries to forget is wrong, then it becomes normal and she doesn’t need to forget.

Then one night, six months after the day John blew up the Ark, she cracks.

*

It starts with a knife.

Not a weapon, but an ordinary kitchen knife Sam is using to chop up onion for a stew she'd been wanting to try. Unfortunately, she starts _thinking_ when she is chopping and the knife slips. A stupid mistake. She’s cursing herself and the blood dripping in the sink when he walks in and—

Freaks the fuck out. He goes into a hyper mode she’s never seen, yelling at her, but in the calmest, quietest, scare-the-shit-out-you voice she’s ever heard.

She yells back in a normal angry tone and wraps her injury in a towel because it’s a “fucking kitchen accident, John. I am not dying. I am perfectly okay and you can take your attitude and shove it up your—“

“You need to sit down, Sam and—”

“—ass. Seriously, I just need a band-aid, probably only one and I will be—umphh.”

He has her against the wall, her towel-covered wrist secured safely above her head and his mouth is on hers. This is not gentle, this is not anything John has shown himself to be in the past few months. His kiss is brutal and it bruises and she can’t resist. He also doesn’t seem to care if she submits right away, confident that she will, eventually.

And she does. After she digs the nails of her free hand into the soft fabric on his back, squirms against his chest, and makes it hard enough to hold onto her that he has to reposition her, grunting, with a knee between her legs so that she’s riding his leg instead of just trapped against the wall to her own goddamn apartment.

She considers crying to make him let go, but Samantha Grimm is made of stronger stuff than that and—oh god—he rocks her against his leg and leans over to take her lips and, while it’s still not gentle, he’s not bruising her this time. This is when she gives in and kisses him back, opening her mouth for his tongue and thrusting down against his jean-covered thigh.

She’s wet now and squirming because, yes, he is still kissing her, but there’s only so much the little pressure he’s giving her is going to do.

But then he uses the weight of his body to hold her in place while he unbuttons and unzips her jeans and he has a finger inside her, pulsing in _just_ the right spot and his thumb is on her clit and she bites his lip, hard, as she comes.

He deserves it.

Even with her head still spinning, she notices that he is still holding her injured hand against the wall and is completely clothed and armed. It’s as if he was waiting for her to notice him again. She starts to form a smart-ass comment, but he seems to read her mind and shakes his head.

She feels like she’s watching this from outside of her body—seeing John carry her into the bathroom, bandage her hand, strip her quickly and efficiently, carry her out into her bedroom, pull back the covers, lay her back on the bed, unarm and undress himself.

The roar in her ears intensifies as he crawls onto the bed, holds her down by the wrists, spreads her legs with one knee, and pushes himself inside her. And then, she can hear again and starts to focus on just feeling: the desperate clutch of his hands on her arms, as if she will take flight if he doesn’t keep her there; his chest rocking against hers, the sharp bite of his hair rough against her nipples; his cock inside of her, moving her inexorably closer to another high that will make the blood roar back.

And with the fading sounds, she starts to understand what he is saying, that he is murmuring reassurances with each movement, that he can’t stop, that he wants to protect her, even from himself, from who he has become and—

She lifts her head up, as much as she can from her pinioned position and kisses him, drinking in his worries and accepting his possession. Because that’s what this is—a claim.

He breaths a quiet moan into her mouth and fucks into her harder, releasing one of her wrists to grab her leg and wrap it around his hip, so he can go even deeper. It almost starts to hurt, but she reaches down to touch herself and can feel another orgasm building. Just as she’s about to go over, he flips her, pulls her onto her knees, and enters her again.

It continues like this, pressure building and retreating, all controlled by his hands, his movements, his call. She keeps her fingers on her clit in time to his thrusts and trembles, desperate to come. Her blood starts to move to her ears again, her head is full of pressure like she’s about to faint. One slick finger thrusts into her ass and he pulses into her once, twice, and then she’s coming, shaking uncontrollably.

*

Sam wakes later, warm, covered in blankets, totally alone. He must have cleaned her up after she passed out in his arms because she reaches down and is wet, sure, but nothing like she was after he came inside her.

There’s a moment of panic, of pure clarity, of what she knows should be and not be.

She sits straight up on the bed, has one foot on the floor, ready to flee (who knows where? It’s not like he couldn’t _find_ her) when she sees him.

He’s in the chair in the corner of her room, fully dressed, fully armed, ready to take on anyone who dares disturb them. But what gives her pause is that his eyes are closed. He’s asleep. This is the first time she’s seen him sleep, hell, seen him relax since they’d escaped with their lives six months ago. He looks younger, peaceful, as everyone does when they let go.

A mixture of affection, shame, and finally acceptance washes over her and she has to look away.

But she doesn’t run.


End file.
